The Turd Terrorists Of Almaty, Kazakhstan

I've lived in Almaty, Kazakhstan for the past three years, and during that time I've seen more human shit in places that it didn't belong than I care to mention. Most of the time it's placed in these locations by folks who just can't be bothered to go through all the hassle of finding an appropriate place to drop off the kids. But sometimes these noxious land mines are the result of deliberate, pre-meditated turd terrorism. So you might want to print this out, kick back, grab a roll of your favorite wiping medium, and let me tell you a little story about life in the former Soviet Union stinkpot I like to call Kaka-stain.

I live in one of the many grey, moribund apartment buildings that make up most of the housing units in the city. It's not even that old -- it was built in the late 80's, and at the time the people who were lucky enough to get an apartment in this building were probably saying "Nah nah nah, I got a dope crib, yo," and thumbing their noses at those suckers living in the Stalin-era communals and the other dumps that are still around to this day. But the building is pretty dilapidated now. The elevators are always breaking down and I guess the person responsible for cleaning the common areas like the staircase, the entrance, and the area where the elevators are located fucked off out of here long before I moved in last year. So trash piles up and just kind of hangs around until some old pensioner gets sick enough of seeing it and picks it up. All in all, it's a nasty-assed building, but the apartment I live in is dope and you can't beat the location. So I've lived here for almost fourteen months and just put up with the general lack of sanitation.

For a city its size, Almaty has more than its fair share of bums. I noticed in the summer that a group of them lives in the yard behind the building, but I didn't pay much attention to them since they never bothered or confronted me. Mostly I would see them digging through the trash or picking up bottles to cash in for cheap vodka or a hit of heroin or whatever. I even saw bums fucking a few times out there; they didn't care at all if anyone was watching them.

It wasn't until this winter, which has been unusually cold, that the bums became a visible -- and eventually huge -- problem. It all began one morning when I came out of my apartment to go to work. There are four units on each floor and a common area in the center where the elevators are. I had begun noticing trash, empty vodka bottles (of the cheapest sort available, around twenty cents for a pint) and discarded syringes scattered about in this area outside my door, so I was on the lookout. I don't like drug addicts and freaks hanging around where I live -- they should be living under a bridge or in a cardboard box somewhere far away from me. So that morning, when I came out and saw some feet poking out from around the corner inside the stairwell located right next to my door, I decided to check it out, since no one usually hangs out in the stairwell.

It turned out to be a quartet of the stinkiest, filthiest, and most inebriated homeless folks I'd ever laid eyes on. Three guys and a woman, all in their 30's and 40's. One guy was passed out with a needle dangling from his arm. The woman was cooking up a dandy little jolt of horse in what appeared to be a very well used and lovingly blackened spoon, oblivious to my presence for a good thirty seconds as I took in the view before me. I spoke up loudly and suddenly, startling her and almost making her drop her spoon. I told her basically to wake her friends and get the fuck out of my building or I would be coming back with the cops. They had really made themselves at home, with blankets and sacks filled with sand or something that they were using as pillows.

She said OK, no problem, she would need some time to revive her fallen comrade and gather things up, and they would be out of there in ten minutes. Figuring I had put a little scare into them, I went off to work and forgot all about it. But when I returned home hours later, I came upon the same motley group of dirtballs. They hadn't moved an inch. The guys were out cold, and the lovely young lady was swigging vodka from a bottle and scratching her crotch enthusiastically with her free hand when I burst into the stairwell. I told her in no uncertain terms that if she didn't pack up her junkie friends and get the hell out straight away, I was calling the police. She just ignored me.

Now, dealing with the local police isn't fun for anyone, including the person who called them to report something. I won't go into great detail; suffice it to say, it wasn't really an option. Likely they wouldn't have showed up for a long time anyway, if at all. By the time they would have gotten here I figured these a-holes would have moved on and all that would happen is I would get grilled and hassled by the dickhead cops because I'm a foreigner. So I bluffed them and took my cordless phone out into the stairwell, where I pretended like I was talking to the cops on the other end. In reality, I was talking into a phone that was turned off. I described the situation, said I was an executive in a big foreign company with lots of powerful friends, and told them I wanted these bastards out of my place. I thanked the imaginary dispatcher, pretended to hang up the phone, and informed the bums that the police would arrive in twenty minutes, so they better pack it up and get the hell out.

The response was a little unexpected: the 'woman,' who had pissed herself sometime while I was pretending to be on the phone, spat at me (luckily missing, though narrowly) and shouted something to the effect of, "Fuck you and your police, we're not afraid of you and we're not moving."

One of the guys had been eyeing me and stealthily edging his way toward the corner. He must have sobered up pretty good, because he produced a large hatchet which had been stashed out of sight, leapt up and lunged at me with it held high over his head, aiming to split my skull right down the middle. This all occurred in a fraction of a second. I did the only thing a sensible, athletic man of thirty-two would do in such a situation: I ran my ass off to my luckily still-open door and locked myself inside. The guy struck my metal door with his hatchet a couple times, and then silence.

I never wished to have a gun more in my life than at that moment, and I wouldn't have hesitated to use it. I still didn't want to call the cops, but my girl was on her way over and I was worried the junkies would still be in the stairwell when she arrived. In fact, they left quickly, since they quite rightly realized I wasn't going to stand for being assaulted with a fucking axe in my own home. I was really bristling with anger and felt like my personal security and that of the woman I love had been utterly compromised.

She soothed me like only she knows how to do, and my anger began to recede. The rest of the evening passed without incident, and by morning it seemed like just another tale for my scrapbook of memories from Kaka-stain. But when I opened the front door the next morning, I felt a bit of uncharacteristic resistance hindering the swing of it. I listened for the clink of bottles, which I've heard before when opening my door in the morning; that's how the bums got me pissed off in the first place, by leaving their bottles and trash right outside my door so that I knocked them over when I opened it. But this was no bottle or wad of newspaper, nor even a used syringe or goo-filled condom -- it was an enormous log of human shit, laid directly in front of my door. Swinging open the door had hopelessly smeared it across the floor; and to make matters worse, I didn't see or smell it until I had already taken a step directly into it.

To be more accurate: I saw and smelled it precisely one nanosecond before the sole of my boot made contact with the pungent muck -- hardly enough time for my brain to freak out and send a signal to my left leg saying, "Stop, fool, stop!"

Realizing what had just occur red, I froze in place, attempting to minimize the damage. My lovely girlfriend, who feigns pushiness at times in a misguided attempt to inject a little extra humor into my life, had no idea what had just happened, and gave me a jovial yet boisterous shove out the door... bad, bad idea. All my weight was balanced on the left foot, which was planted in a massive pile of shit.

If you've never stepped in shit before -- and who the fuck hasn't stepped in dog shit? But I mean a big pile of human butt butter -- you know that cartoonists should have been using dung logs instead of banana peels to represent that slippery medium that sends people, animals, and even cars flying head over heels. I don't recall having stepped in anything so slippery in my life. So due to my position in the doorway, with my weight on the foot in the shit and my girlfriend shoving me from behind, said foot came abruptly out from under me. Now I was sitting on my duff, in a brand-new knee-length cashmere overcoat, in a pile of bum turd.

My girlfriend got a whiff of the fecal aroma and shrieked. She then accused me of shitting my pants, which I vigorously and passionately denied, all the while sitting in the shit because I was so mortified I had no desire to stand and see the damage. I finally came to my senses and stood up. I fought off my desire to burst into tears (I figured even slipping in shit and getting it all over my coveted cashmere coat wasn't enough justification to bawl in front of a girl), kicked off my shoe outside the door, and hauled ass to the bathroom, where I pulled off the coat and deposited it in the tub. I wasn't ready to throw it in the trash, since I had paid over $1200 for it just a week before. I never buy things like that for myself, and I wasn't going to let those bums get to me so easily. I grabbed a trash bag from the kitchen, carefully placed the coat inside and deposited it on the balcony, where the smell wouldn't annoy me in the house.

I changed my clothes for good measure, but I still felt dirty, so I took a quick shower and put on fresh clothes. I came out of the bedroom to find my girl sitting on the couch in the entrance, still under the impression that I had shit myself. Since I like to booze it up once in a while, she had it in her head that I had gotten up in the night, not been able to find the can, and stepped out the front door to pinch a loaf. Through careful explanation and rationalization, I was finally able to convince her of the truth and nip in the bud the possibility of her leaving me for being an incontinent slob. (She's not at all shallow, but who wants to leave such things to chance?)

I cautiously opened the door and stepped over the mess to get a better look at how this act of turd terrorism had taken place. Upon inspection, it became immediately obvious that the terrorist had simply dropped trou, leaned up against my door, and let the fudge bomb slide out his or her ass, leaving a tell-tale brown stripe down the front of the door. It had spent the night like that, leaning forlornly against the door, probably lonely and cold outside the shelter of its former host's colon. To make things even worse for Mr. Chunky, he had been smeared by the door, stepped in, and fallen upon. I felt sorry for him; but he couldn't stay where he was.

For once the trash in the entryway became useful. I formed a makeshift pooper-scooper from some discarded cardboard and made quick work of the sickening mess, and then followed that up with a good washing and disinfection. Already more than an hour late for work, I fetched my shit-covered overcoat from the balcony, donned a clean coat and shoes, and ushered my girl downstairs. I retrieved my car from the garage and placed the coat, now wrapped and sealed in several bags, in the trunk. I dropped it off at the dry cleaner, warned them about the contents, and paid the girl at the counter substantially for her trouble. Then I dropped my lady off at work and drove to my office.

I was on edge all day, thrown completely off-kilter by the act o f terror. I decided not to tell anyone in my office about it, choosing instead to sit quietly in my room and avoid all contact with my colleagues.

That evening I went home as usual. Lo and behold, there were EIGHT bums in my stairwell -- all four from the previous night, plus four new ones. They were having a little party, complete with a toasty bonfire right there in the stairwell. Apparently they had been at it most of the day, since there was a substantial amount of empty bottles, syringes, and cigarette butts on the floor around them. I pretended like I didn't see them, went inside my apartment, called two of my friends, and waited. My friends arrived about fifteen minutes later. We each selected a golf club from my bag in the closet. I chose a sand wedge, Yuri a six iron, and Rudolf opted for my Ping putter. Unfortunately, all of those clubs ended up getting broken, but I saved the heads and had new shafts sent over from the States before spring.

We didn't kill anyone, but eight homeless junkies got quite a hiding that night. We threw them out in the snow one by one like cordwood when we were finished with them. I felt a great weight lifted from my shoulders, and that night I slept like a baby.

Weeks went by, and I figured we had really taught those douchebags a lesson. I cautiously opened my door every morning, just in case. I eyeballed anyone suspicious looking who even came near the entrance of the building, but saw hide nor hair of my adversaries. I woke up late at night and peered into the stairwell to try and catch anyone who may have been lurking there. Nothing. I finally relaxed, and went about life as usual.

Then, unbelievably, it happened again. It seems like you just can't break some people, even if you and a couple of your buddies try to do it with the help of a few Tommy Armour cavity-back irons. This time it was a duet: one solid log, and one runny pool of bowel sauce, smack in front of my door.

Since the last occurrence, the heating system had shut down in the entryway, and bitter cold had utterly penetrated the building. That's probably why I hadn't seen the bums -- they had moved on to better, warmer digs. But that didn't stop them from coming back and leaving me a little present. Since the temperature was about twenty below zero in there, the shit had frozen solid. I couldn't open my door far enough to see what was there and had to strike it a few times until the shit was partially shattered by the weight of the door. Most of it, however, remained firmly cemented to the floor.

I elected to call in the professionals to handle this one: two old Soviet babushkas from the building who were in charge of keeping the yard outside picked up. They didn't do much of a job of it, since they were shit-faced drunk most of the time, but I didn't really have an option at that point. I paid each of them about $5, which was more than enough to make them both happy, and when I came home I found they had somehow managed to dislodge the frozen fudge. In fact, they cleaned the entire area very well, which had me in shock.

I was thinking all day about how I could defend myself against future acts of turd terrorism, and had settled on what I thought was a pretty good solution; a wireless surveillance camera, set to record any activity outside my door. I configured it to relay the signal to my home computer, hoping to catch someone in the act.

Another few weeks went by without incident. I would wake in the night to check and see if anything had been recorded (the camera would only record if triggered by a motion sensor), but got nothing except my elderly neighbors occasionally coming out of their apartments in the ungodly early morning hours. Any hope of catching the perpetrators of these heinous-anus crimes was fading fast as spring approached -- the bands of druggie bums tend to migrate according to the seasons, and I was afraid I'd never get the fuckers. By that point I had grown a little bored of the whole thing, but revenge still smoldered somewhere deep inside me. I s topped staying home and staring at my computer screen, and started hanging out with my friends in the nightclubs more often.

One warm, rainy April night, I stumbled into my building around five AM after a night of merrymaking with the rowdies. The elevators were on the fritz again, so I had to hump it up the stairs. I rounded the last corner before my landing and nearly stepped on him in the darkness. I squinted in the dimness of the stairwell, and as my eyes adjusted to the light I realized I was staring at the motherfucker who had attacked me with a hatchet. He looked like the kind of guy who fit the profile of a turd terrorist -- at least in my mind. Anyway, it didn't matter at that point, since I had about a liter of booze in me and a mean streak that rivaled the brown streak which had been left on my door the first time around.

I clearly recall stepping over the guy fast asleep on the landing, unlocking my door, and fetching a roll of paper towels from the kitchen table. I changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and grabbed a knife from the kitchen, just in case. I then stepped back out into the stairwell, dropped my shorts and boxers, hovered over the junkie, and calmly deposited the contents of my colon on his midsection.

He never moved or made a sound as I floated above him for more than a minute, firing chunks of shit and watery feces all over him. I wiped my ass with the paper towel, laid it on his stomach, and went back inside my apartment. Exhausted from a lot of liquor and the ecstasy of righteous revenge, I fell fast asleep.

I slept through my alarm the next morning and finally dragged my hung-over ass out of bed around two PM. It took about ten minutes for me to sort out whether my recollection of the night before had been a dream or reality. I battled with my brain for what seemed like an eternity, and finally decided I had to see for myself. I stealthily unlocked the door and peered into the stairwell... no one there. I noiselessly tiptoed to the threshold and peered down at the landing... nothing there.

Nothing, that is, except for some splatters of shit and a wad of very used paper towel. I smiled to myself, went back inside, and called the babushkas who had cleaned up the shitsicles several weeks before. I had a job for them, and I hoped it would be their last.

As it turned out, it was. I haven't seen any junkies around here for almost a year. The moral I learned from this was: shit must be fought with shit. No choice. An eye for an eye, a turd for a turd. And if you are mad enough to shit on someone, you are a force to be reckoned with. Forget the Hot Carl; it'll always be the Hot Ivan to me, for as long as I live.

Great story. But you should have gotten that gun, and really finished the job. Junkies who squat in the homes of people who actually pay rent need to be choped into hamburger and made into landfill.

I just wonder why someone with a $1200 overcoat, who is a golf player (no cheap pasttime), would opt to live in such a hovel in the first place. Location is one thing, but i'd rather commute an two hours than live under those conditions.

Sweet sweet revenge. Its such a wonderful thing. Great story, too. We've got a bunch of turd terrorist bums at my workplace who make it a habit to shit on the entryway to my building at least twice a week. I would love nothing more than to take a couple of golf clubs to these trolls myself. I thought for sure you would've just shit on the paper towels and plant them right on the guy's chest, but instead you went and shit directly on the guy. Damn, you're brave. Way to go!

Also, having attended a golf course and turf management school I know for a fact that there are only 3 golf courses in all of Russia and none in any of it's former republics. What the hell do you have clubs there for?

while i don't condone acts of turd terrorism perpetrated by the homeless, and strongly support the "eye for an eye" concept, i still can't help but feel sorry the homeless people. they obviously have serious problems. nobody in their right mind would choose to live that way.

but i did enjoy the story. i think it's the first time i actually let my jaw drop in shock while reading a poop report, during the part where you pooped on the guy. well done!

okay, no chopping up. you're right. but maybe we could fence off the corner of some underpopulated, warm, southern state, put a fence around it, and airdrop farming and hunting equpimnet along with a continuing supply of heroine and vodka for those that want to keep their monkies, then exile the lot of 'em. That's not so bad, right?

(also to keep on topic: I just left a heaping mountain of caca in the can.)

Hah, Vertical Grimace. Thou art a stallion. Launching loaf onto an unconscious turd terrorist is a sick fantasy us lesser men have often nursed without hope of satisfaction. You have hatched a new concept of human interaction: "eye for an eye, turd for a turd."

Excellent story, and not a word too long. You pukes who complain about the length were free to quit reading at any time. A story is only too long if it is a crappy long story.

Frequent Farter: There are two courses here, one that's been around for about 6 years, the other opening in spring. Both owned by Japanese investors.
Tronald Dump: You'd really have to see this place to understand why I live in that apartment. Generally, all building have this problem in the public spaces (especially in winter). The only ones that don't are the new buildings that have 24 hour security.

Thanks for the compiments, everyone. Shit Volcano, I think Alabama would be better than Georgia.

DEAR MR TRONALD DUMP... YOU AND I BOTH NO THAT THAT SAME EXACT THEORY WAS 1ST USED BY GEORGE CARLIN.HE SAID TO DO THAT TO ALL THE CRZY PPL DRUGGIES AND RAPIST.I THINK ITS REALLY LAME TO SAY SOMETHING SOMEONE ELSE HAS ALREADY SAID AND USE IT FOR YOUR OWN...DUHHH . HE SAID THE SAME EXACT THING WORD FOR WORD EVEN THE AIR DROPPING OF DRUGS AND SUCH.YOU FORGOT TO PUT IN UR RECYCLED COMMENT OF PUTTING IN SURVLEINCE CAMS AND BROADCASTING ON TV WHEN THEY OPENED THE GATES ONCE A MONTH FOR 10 SECONDS AND HOW ONLY THE FITTEST OF THE DRUGGIES RAPEIST AND NUTSOS WOULD GET THREW..DUHHH UR GAY

Trydirium. I'm dissapTrydirium. I'm disappointed that none of the uber poopers have yet taken up your question about what responses to turd terrorism might be allowed under the Shameless Shitting Manifesto. Might I suggest you offer this question to Dave to post on Ask PoopReport.

I don't blame you for getting revenge the way you did. You certainly deserved to. But I can't help empathizing with the bums a little. Not that I'm a squatter who parties in people foyers, but I do know how awful it is to wake up and find that someone's shit on you. I once was in the back alley of a club taking a piss. I was drunker than a skunk. Everything was spinning and i needed to sit down. I sat on the ground and passed out -- before I even got to put my dick away. When I woke up hours later i couldn't believe the horroble stench i smelt. Then I discovered it was coming from me. Someone had squatted over me and dumped their turds on my chest. In fact it had been more than one perpetrater. There was another set of Lincoln Logs on my crotch and still exposed dick. They were slightly different in color, so i knew there had been an accompliss. It was a long, embarrassing walk home. I was too humiliated to take the subway, but I've still never been so degraded in my life.

Nice work! Very, very funny... I've heard many (mostly unbelievable) tales of the Hot Carl, usually revenge-orented but following a sexual act... Here, was the right place to use it.

My ex-boss, who owns a neon sign shop, had a door on the side of his building that was overlooked by the sloping street (hard to describe) and bums would piss over the railing, down onto the door... There was a drain there. A bus stop around the corner, and this on a dimly-lit side street, meant it was a common spot for bussing bums to take a whiz. My boss got sick of it, and put a single-wire neon transformer (used for special neon artwork having only one electrical connection to the tube rather than one at each end - the air becomes the tube's 'ground') on the floor behind the door, ran a wire under the weather strip through a thin glass tube, and made a spiral of wire on the cement, supported by some scraps of glass tubing as insulators. This, he turned on and left on, hoping to ZAP anyone who peed on his side door. One puddle got left there...and no more. Period. He left the device in place for a few weeks. When he finally removed it, someone (perhaps the guy whose schlong got zapped?) dropped a deuce on the cement outside the door. That was, as far as I know, the last time during his occupancy that anyone used that spot as a bathroom. He's now in a bigger space, in an area with fewer problems... He did some really crazy experiments and such there with neon tubing and high voltage, but that one stands out in my mind.

An addendum to the above comment of mine: While zapping someone through their dick, via their piss, with a 3000V neon transformer is pretty cruel (these single-wire transformers are EXTREMELY low amperage, almost like high-voltage static electricity - it won't by any means kill you, or do serious damage, but it'll hurt a whole lot) I agree with his usage of it in this case. From the relative positions of door and railing, people were probably just intending to pee into the well (where there WAS a drain) but they would invariably paint his shop's wooden door, which stunk badly. The police in this area wouldn't do much about something like that, considering how they acted in response to more serious local happenings... It was simply "Huh. Sucks to be you..." So in this case, I'll justify the drastic measures.

I didn't know that, but since I do like george carlin's humor perhaps it was in my memory, and came out as a "thought".No plagerism or harm intended. Where did he say this, in one of his books, or a specific video?

You bought a coat for $1,200 yet you only paid the poor guys who cleaned up the crap from out side your door $5, shame on you. Also, have you ever read 'american psycho? thats you, that is, you appear to have a sick way of judging the poor, weak and homeless, However, i deplore the way they crapped outside your door. I think you are incredibly brave for kakking on the guy's chest, I am a shamelefull shitter, I can not even do it in a public toilet, wish I knew your technique!

Speaking from EXperience, a junkie's colon, is not
to be trifled with, as you found out. The opiate's
effect usually means a 7-21 day "plug".Whether or
not you realize it,the course of action you took,
is normal in that lifestyle.

Good story. I like the long stories when they're like this one. And congrats on shitting on the bum, very few people can say that they have actually shat upon another person in revenge. It's something to be proud of.

At least it's an interesting story.
It reveals the character of the author.
1200$ cashmere, golf stuff (in Almaty!), and buying a surveillance cam for all this shit... this is too much for me to feel any sympathy for you.

The revenge is ok but the beginning of the whole story was initiated due to your rude behaviour which is very inappropriate when you are a stranger in foreign countries. Actually, you attracted trouble.

You earn good? So do I. You are more clever than these homeless people? So am I. But still I would never start to behave so arrogant and so much like an emperor as you did.

I think this is going a bit far, they never actually shit ON you, if you had shit next to himwhere he could have rolled/stepped/fallen in like you did, it would have made it a little more acceptable, but you shit directly on him, so, no, I don't think that's justifiable_______I will never shit somewhere that only has that horrible, scratchy brand of toilet paper. That stuff sucks!

Coming from a family of great poop stories, I will definitly send this to my kids. With our many tales of public pant shitting I could only imagine lining up behind Mr. Dump and frosting this dude with our essence. Great story, great end.

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